


A Tale of Running Away

by Megane



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Capture, Charming Personalities, Destruction, Drugs, Drunkenness, Emotional Manipulation, Fear, Freedom, Friendship, Gaslighting, Good People in One's Life, Halfway House, Hatred, Hopeful Ending, Madness, Manipulation, Memories, Mercenaries, Minor Original Character(s), On the Run, Ownership, Past Abuse, Past Torture, Recovery, Regret, Repressed Memories, Running Away, Secret Networks, Self-Hatred, Slavery, Starting Over, Unexpected friendships, Vent Pieces, destroying property, helping hands, off screen murder, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 01:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8645581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Megane
Summary: Fenris' life is full of strife but also triumph. He remembers all that he wishes he could forget, but it will not break him. Not anymore. He is strong; he'll survive.And he is not alone.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a rough time for so, so many people… But this week, I really took a beating. Fenris has always been a character I've always related to for a number of unfortunate reasons. So please allow me something as selfish as this.
> 
> Happy 100 fics, AO3. Thank you for being there for me.

_You're nothing without me._

_You might covet the world outside of this cage, but I will not have you wasting your life– your strength. You are what **I** made you. Without me, you'd be **nothing**!_

_You've no other identity. You are as I have named you:_

_Fenris._

 

 

The elf's feet pounded against the ground. He ran, feeling the pain of the sharp rocks against his feet. He was dripping wet, and his breath was ragged as he kept pushing himself further and further. He looked around, desperately trying to find something, but all around him were smooth rocks and cliff faces that hid nothing. For the first time in a long time, he felt the fear of being captured again.

He glanced over his shoulder towards the coast where Danarius and his men and his ship were all sinking. The boat had been destroyed by Fenris' own doing, and at this very moment, he couldn't remember _how_ he did it. His mind was scrambled, thoughts all over the place. He turned his head when he heard the angered voices and foul curses spat into the air on the shore behind him.

Could they see him from where he was? Fenris hoped not, but the fear fueled his anger and his determination to get away. His eyes widened when he found the mouth of a cave, dark and small, but he darted towards it anyway as it was his only salvation. He opened out his hand, gauntleted fingers scratching at the opening as he used it to pull himself forward and inside. Fenris stumbled, moving too quickly for his feet to catch up. In the empty cave, he could hear his feet stomping, his breath shaking, and in his head, he could hear Danarius calling out his name.

_Fenris! Fenris!_

He wanted to stab himself in the ears, but it wouldn't do anything to rid him of the noise inside his head. Fenris dove underneath a ruined bridge and tucked himself into the very corner between the bridge, a wall, and a stalagmite. He pressed his feet against the stalagmite, using it to curl himself into a ball, making himself as small as possible. He crossed his arms over his knees and allowed himself to breathe heavily. He coughed hard enough to shake his body, even though it was trembling enough already.

His breath left him in quick, deep waves, making him light headed, but when he heard the clang of armour, Fenris quieted himself down as much as possible. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, allowing his chest to heave so long as each breath came out silently though his propped open mouth. “Where is he?!” Danarius snapped, and Fenris could feel the sting of magic in the air. A veil of magic danced against his lyrium; Fenris bit down on his tongue, preparing his mind and concentrating his willpower and self-control to prevent the lyrium from lighting up should that happen.

But Fenris found his thoughts repeating one sentiment:

_Don't call out to me, you bastard. Don't you dare…_

Danarius' feet shuffled against the earth as he turned this way and that. Fenris' ears burned from running; his soul burned from knowing that his “master” was near. “Find him,” Danarius hissed to one, if not both, of his men. “Find him, and bring him here. I will lash him a thousand times and hang him by his ears!”

Fenris winced at the threat. It was all too vivid in his mind, but he resisted the urge to reach up and hide his ears out of sight. He listened quietly, controlling his breathing now so that it exited him steadily. As the footsteps and magic traveled away from him, Fenris lowered his feet to the ground and slowly crept forward to look past the bridge. Creep, creep, creep bit by bit. He felt his breathing pick up again; the air felt harsh and cold as he breathed quickly but quietly through his nose.

No one was blocking the entrance. Fenris could see a shadow somewhere near it, but from what he gathered, not close enough to physically harm him. He stayed still for a few more seconds, and then a full minute. His armour dug uncomfortably into his skin, but he stayed in his position. Patient on the outside but frantic on the inside. 

Finally, Fenris held his breath and bolted. He exited back out of the cave and ran as far as he could away from the coast. He came across bandits hounding a traveling caravan, and Fenris took care of the petty thieves with brutal, efficient movements of his sword. He looked to the merchant, not caring for the blood on his face and hands.

“Take me to the nearest town,” the elf ordered in a rush, not wanting anything else. The merchant watched him warily before looking up at Fenris, who watched as the merchant's gaze flicked rapidly from one side of Fenris to the other. They were focusing on his ears. Fenris narrowed his eyes and tightened the grip on his sword. “Now!” he barked as his lyrium flashed to life.

The elf climbed into the back of the caravan wagon and lowered himself down to the floor. Boxes prodded him in his sides, and he had to lift his hands to keep more goods from falling on top of him. Finally, he stretched upward, took down the topmost crate with some uncomfortable movements, and held it on his chest. His clawed fingers gripped the opening of the box, and Fenris closed his eyes, rocking steadily as the merchant took him away from slavers and destroyed ships into some unknown far off town.

  


Or… into Kirkwall.

He had visited this place. Danarius had a home here, Fenris remembered that. The magister brought Fenris and other slaves into town to trade or, to Fenris' infinite horror, to attend slave auctions. Whenever they attended an auction, Fenris would shut down; it became instinctual after a point. His eyes would become glassy and unseeing, not wishing to acknowledge the slaves that either entered Danarius' numbers or left them. He would pretend not to acknowledge the all too familiar touches of other slavers who knew Danarius and 'appreciated' Fenris. Coveted him was more like it.

Being the weapon that he was, Fenris could snatch wrists and pull hands away from his face even in his comatose like state. It always amused Danarius, who knew that Fenris was in some mental and spiritual pain being there, but still the slaver would take his time browsing human and elfin wares, and afterward, they would assimilate into the crowds of the real marketplace. Danarius bought clothes and food and laughed about his good fortune. Oh… how he laughed.

Fenris could see the man's face now, marching up to get close to him, glaring at Fenris because he wouldn't laugh too. The elf had forgotten what it was like to laugh, well and truly. There were times when he would forget his station in life and find something funny. Something he saw or overheard, but then Danarius' voice and presence would rip the smile off his face before he had a chance to savour it.

Being in Kirkwall reminded him of this and many other things like that he had a contact in Darktown, someone who could hide him away for however long he needed it. Fenris had first came across this contact when he was with Danarius one awful auction heavy day. The contact who had been guised as a merchant approached Fenris when he was alone, cursing the obnoxious vanity of Danarius, and handed the elf an engraved coin. Fenris could not read the writing, but he committed the symbol to his memory. He remembered that the coin felt cold to his touch in spite of being in the contained humidity of the Hanged Man.

        “A slave is only a slave until it is a slave no more,” the merchant had said, motioning to the coin. “Choose then, your slavery or your future.”

        “How do you know I would want such a thing?” Fenris then asked dryly, turning the coin between his deadly fingers.

        The merchant only grinned. “Because you haven't returned the coin yet.” Fenris trained his gaze onto the merchant's face, unamused by the simplistic response. “Elf, you want the option, and here it is.”

Fenris stared down at the coin once again. It had clearly been fashioned for this singular purpose. It was an enigmatic trinket that probably wouldn't grab the attention of those ignorant of its true nature.

        “I ask you again to make your choice, but don't tell me your response now. Your actions will be the answer,” the merchant-contact said confidently. Nimble hands tucked into a sleeve. The merchant gave a sage nod. “Should you decide to use it, merely brandish the coin or repeat the phrase 'A slave is merely a slave until it is a slave no more.'”

        “And to whom would I show this coin? Who would listen to such a meaningless phrase?” Fenris asked, the right corner of his upper lip pulling up in distaste.

He found this whole thing to be… quantifiably unrealistic. He didn't mind working in secret. It was his trade; it was his preferred way of gaining and using information, especially if he was stuck in Danarius' company. But something about this entire thing was built upon an unknown foundation, and it felt as if Life was having a go at him. He almost shoved the coin back in the merchant's direction – he remembered that very clearly – but it was as the merchant had said.

Fenris wanted this option and now here it was. But how the merchant knew that was unexplained…

        “I will tell you to begin your search in Darktown. These merchants and healers have more knowledge than they yet share. But your search will not be an easy one as Kirkwall is as secretive as it is ignorant. If you're successful, however, you would be rewarded with a secret place where you are free to live your days and sleep your nights in absolute peace.”

        Fenris placed the coin down on the table then. It was kept down under his hand, blocked by his armoured fingers. “And I am to just trust you?”

        “Not at all,” the merchant said, glancing over a shoulder before rising. “You are to trust your instinct, and you're to follow through with whatever decision you make.” Nimble fingers fanned out in some idle gesture; the left hand went to the back of the seat the merchant once sat in. “I am a mere stepping stone in something greater.”

There was a moment of silence– perhaps only so Fenris could fully digest the reality of the option set in front of him. If it were real, then the opportunity was truly incredibly; it was beyond words. And even though the contact had left Fenris to his routine in that tavern months and months ago, the memory played in Fenris' mind ever since. At first, he received the opportunity with a degree of shock, but after experiencing all that he had, he needed the refuge now more than ever.

The damnable thing, perhaps, was that he had lost the coin since then. The last time he had remembered seeing or even holding it had been… when he was with the Fog Warriors, a group whose very name still brought pain to his heart.

Fenris closed his eyes against the barrage of memories. He focused instead on the voices outside of the wagon. When he heard the wagon driver's voice drift away, Fenris hopped out of the bag and quickly made his way in a random direction. He just picked a way and moved unapologetically forward with heavy steps. He wandered idly around Darktown for a while; he snatched tattered sheet from a box in passing and fashioned it around his head and torso with snappy movements. The hood was dusty and coarse and irritated his sensitive ears, but he kept it on still. The hood was enough to cover the markings on his face, and he drew his arms up under the sheet to hide them from sight as well.

He licked his dry lips as he wandered; his gaze flicked suspiciously from face to face. He kept his head low and pushed through the crowds towards various merchants. He repeated the phrase until his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and until each word sounded unfamiliar to his own ears. Most merchants looked at him like he was daft, but when he found someone who knew what he was talking about, Fenris was led in a new direction to repeat the madness again. After the second knowledge merchant, he was given a new item to carry.

It was a red potion that made his palm burn from its magical heat. Some dark memory stirred deep in his head, leaving him feeling sick as he hurried to a new place. After handing over the potion, he was given a green herb in a bowl that had been into a mashed paste. He was requested to eat when he met up with his next contact. He was suspicious at this point, but he figured that this would be an elaborate ruse just to poison or kill someone. Though, it would be appropriate if his bad luck decided to catch up with him now.

His next contact was a rather handsome woman. She stared up at Fenris with barely opened eyes; her thick red-brown lashes were thick and fanned out from her eyes. She told Fenris to taste the mixture in the bowl he held. He took in a breath, keeping down his irritation before doing as he was told. Following the request made his stomach turn and knot up. He dipped a taloned finger into the mixture and brought it up to his mouth.

Whatever it was, it was _awful_. It made his head spin and knock his senses off balance. Fenris knew he had been drugged; it was easy to tell. He glared at her, but she only laughed and reached up for the bowl to take it out of his hands.

        “Yup. That's the stuff,” she said appreciatively. She motioned to the space beside her. “It has one hell of a kick though. Come lie behind my booth. You shouldn't wander in these parts unawares.”

Fenris wavered in place, but then he moved towards the woman suspiciously. He dropped down to one knee, placing his hand on her booth as he eased himself down. She merely chuckled as she pulled out a stack of parchment from under the booth; she set it down next to the bowl and set about her work. She sang quietly to herself, and Fenris stared up at her with knitted brows. The high passed through his body, forcing him to relax, and eventually, the elf closed his eyes. He drifted into a deep sleep, and somewhere in his mind, he realised that this was the best he slept in a long time.

He wasn't entirely sure that was a great thing.

When he finally stirred, he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose between his talons. The woman reached down and brushed he back of his upraised arm. Fenris lowered his arm to stare up at her.

        “Hello, sleepy elf,” she said in a singsong voice.

She reached down to hand a note to him. Fenris groggily took a note from her. It was a map; a small piece of the city had been drawn with great care but was unlabelled. The only notable thing was a dot drawn in the upper right of the map.

        The merchant placed a hand on her thigh, watching the elf. “Can you read?” she asked him.

        “No,” Fenris replied darkly, drawing the map closer to his face.

        She sounded pleased as she said, “Well, that makes this all the better. I hope you have a good memory then to make up for it. You'll need to leave this part of the city and move as if heading towards Hightown. From there, you'll have to head east through the marketplace and follow these steps…”

Fenris closed his eyes as he memorised each movement. She repeated herself twice, and Fenris asked once more for his own clarification. He recognised this city, but he didn't know it intimately by any means. He could navigate from the front gates to a slave yard with mindless grace, but that wasn't something he was proud of. He began sitting up, and the woman bent to her left, grabbing a cloak from under her booth, which she then offered to him.

        “Why are you helping me?” Fenris asked finally, pulling the sheet off his body to replace it with the cloak.

        “Because you are a friend,” she said, all too casually. “You would not have made it this far if you weren't.”

It was a reason he could understand, though the word 'friend' didn't have the same intimate meaning for him as it did for other people. The word was bound more by honour and laced in betrayal. He took it to heart, that word 'friend', and so when it was used in his regard, it made him both more suspicious and grateful.

        “I'm going,” Fenris said as he stood, adjusting the hood over his head.

        “Be well, friend. And come by once you've found yourself safe.”

Fenris gave a noncommittal grunt. He'd consider it. If he was truly safe in the end, then he would come see the woman again if only to thank her for her help. He followed along with the woman's directions until they were useful to him no more, then he referred to the map. He pulled it from his chest plate and glanced at the neat drawing. He turned it this way and that, trying to recognise the subtle shapes on the map in the real world around him. Through some confusion and turning around, he eventually found himself of an ornate door. Fenris frowned and tucked away the map once again. He pushed his way through the entrance. He took cautious steps forward.

He was wrapped in a heavy blanket of silence. Fenris called out the phrase as he slowly made his way over the wooden bridge. The door slammed closed behind him. The elf immediately stopped and lowered down his stance, reaching back to grab at his sword hilt, not wanting to give whatever was coming the upper hand. A laugh echoed through the empty space, and Fenris saw a familiar face at the end of the bridge.

        “It has been a while, my friend,” his contact said, “but I knew it was best to leave our reunion to fate. Come. Sit, rest. There is a place for you here.”

        “Where am I?” Fenris asked, slowly relaxing his posture and then advancing forward.

        “Ah. How rude of me.” The merchant took a step back and motioned to the room around them. “Welcome, dear friend, to the Black Emporium.”

 

 

The first few days, Fenris found it difficult to rest easy. His bed was beneath the upper deck of the Emporium and was only accessible by a set of narrow stairs underneath the large chest. Whenever he heard an unfamiliar voice or set of voices, Fenris was immediately on his guard. Even the merchant's low, admittedly sinister laugh put him on edge. He prepared himself for an ambush, but each time, he listened closely, hearing the amicable tones and trade lingo which meant nothing to him.

Another time he heard an unfamiliar voice, he recognised the accent as Tevine, and Fenris' heart beat hard and fast in his chest. He found himself too stunned to move and stared up at the floor boards over head, silently fearing the worse. His mind raced through all the horrific possibilities until the voice and the merchant exited overhead. It was a chilling reminder that he was still running, that he had much to be afraid of. He shouldn't get comfortable, his instincts told him. Even still, he stayed in the Emporium for a little over a week.

After the week, Fenris found that he finally had the mental fortitude to leave. He knew that Danarius hadn't given up on him, but he needed to go out into the world and gauge what his chances were. He climbed the stairs and waited for the sounds of others. He could pick up the idle sound of a page being flipped before reaching up over his head and pushing away the heavy chest.

The merchant, whose name Fenris learned was Chaver, looked over towards the elf as he resurfaced. Fenris heard the soft laugh as he reset the chest over his hiding place and turned around to see Chaver standing against the railing.

        “I'm leaving,” Fenris announced. He then clarified with, “I need to see what's out there.”

        “Then go away,” Chaver teased, gesturing with a hand wave. “I've found some work for you on the off chance you were interested.”

        Work? For him? Fenris' thick brows knotted together. He lifted his chin to take in Chaver before asking, “What're you doing this for? I understand helpfulness, but you strike me as someone who merely delights in the secrecy of it all.”

        “Perhaps, I do,” Chaver said with a smile. “But I do hate to see yet another enslaved.”

        “What of others then? What good would it do to help me when there are so many of _them_?” Fenris felt rage building in his voice. So many years of being quiet or going numb, and now he finally had the chance to voice his frustration about it.

        But Chaver only took it with a slight smile. “I am one of many looking to help them. We've assisted in our slow and steady ways, but helping you will unlock a greater truth. You are but a mere stepping stone in doing what's right.”

        Fenris frowned. “… How can you be so sure?” he asked softly.

        There was a moment of silence before Chaver looked to the book and opened it. “I can't,” he said with the same quietness, returning to his page. “I know the sort of man Danarius is, and I have seen you through the eyes of others when you are with him. Perhaps you have been too tainted by his influence. Perhaps you're greater than you yet appear. I am a gambler, dear friend. I am one to take chances. And I do not regret reaching out to you. You will do what you must, Fenris.”

That was the first time Chaver had called Fenris by his name in the week they cohabited this space, but Chaver spoke it so easily and yet there was great meaning in the merchant's voice. Fenris' fingers curled and uncurled at his side. He gave the smallest nod of his head.

        “I've declared you a mercenary to some of my associates,” Chaver then said. “They also like to take chances. They've enlisted others who are seen as better off dead in this society, and they've given me a job that would be perfect for you.”

Chaver turned back and picked up a pouch of coin that was set on the raining behind him. He tossed it underhandedly towards Fenris, who caught it with ease.

        “You'll need to travel to the border and eliminate a horde of Shades. You will be unassisted, but you'll be clearing the way for some of our cargo. No need to worry about escorting. They can find the way themselves.” Fenris bounced the pouch between his fingers as Chaver said, “Afterward, travel to Vimmark Mountains. You'll be given equipment and a feast as your reward as well as whatever other gifts they see fit to bestow. Perhaps they'll be kind enough to lend you with more information about whatever you may need.”

Fenris dropped the pouch into one on his belt. He smoothed his palm against the bulge, shifting the coins within until the hump flattened out enough to be mostly unnoticeable. He nodded to Chaver, who waved him off as he left.

        “Be well, my friend.”

 _Friend…_ Somehow when Chaver said it, Fenris felt it was completely genuine and much more than just 'business'.

Fenris didn't forget about Danarius, and he still had his guard up every waking moment he spent outside. He spent more and more time away from the Emporium, checking for Danarius' spies and hunters wherever he went. Whenever he heard the grating authority of Danarius' voice in his head, Fenris would go to the Bone Pit to blow off steam. Other times, he would travel to Sundermount for his own peace of mind.

At one point, he came across a community of elves, who he spied on from afar. They seemed to be living quietly with their own rules and etiquette that they adhered to. For some days, Fenris peeked on the village, admiring their customs though he knew he couldn't be a part of their sect. When he stood up, he noticed an elven male was staring up at him. He looked strong, despite his build, and very much like a warrior. Fenris didn't acknowledge him with a wave or a nod. Instead, he grabbed his sword and turned away.

He didn't go to that community again. At least, not on his own.

 

 

One humid night, Fenris returned to the Black Emporium scraped and bruised from an excursion he went out on. Instead of going immediately to his hidden bed, he sat down on the floor next to the alchemy table. Fenris leaned his head back against the wooden banister and stared up at the darkened ceiling, focusing on the sting in his flesh and the burning in his veins.

He felt so alive… He knew he was poisoned, but he just wanted to focus on this moment and how he was able to injure himself by his own volition. This wasn't freedom, not as long as he was looking over his shoulder for Danarius or his men, but if this was the closest he could get to enjoying it, then he would.

He coughed as the poison worked slowly through his body. He brought a hand up to his mouth and coughed up tainted blood against his palm. _Worthless dog,_ he heard echo in his mind. _What would you do without me?_ Fenris sneered at the inner voice, wanting to keep himself poisoned out of spite.

But he wouldn't. He needed his strength in every capacity he could afford it. He crossed left arm over his chest, reaching over to grab one of the potions that had been made already. He swirled the bottle of elixir in his hand before pulling off the stopper and knocking back its contents.

Fenris groaned softly as the liquid began to work within him. He placed his free hand on his stomach as it contracted painfully. Fenris hissed and kept still until the pain eventually subsided. He stood up on his feet and set the empty bottle down onto the brewing table. He didn't do this because he felt that he needed to follow an order, but some small, undeniable part of him felt that he was.

 

Fenris came up with a great idea. He left the Black Emporium after thanking Chaver for his companionship and his knowledge. Chaver told him that he was welcoming any time he needed a safe haven or needed to do business.

        “I will return for your wares, but make no mistake, Chaver. I will not hide again.”

He felt with a mission in his heart. He headed to Hightown and entered Danarius' mansion after nearly a year on the run. He broke open the back window and pulled open the latch to enter the door. He walked around his _former_ master's estate, appraising every inch with his eyes. The elf wanted to appropriate this place and make it his. If Danarius wanted it, he would have to come take it with his blood.

Fenris exited out the front door on a mission, heading to the Hanged Man to do some business. He needed someone knowledgable who could hire mercenaries on his behalf. He found a dwarf named Anso, and the two talked business late into the night. Anso had many stipulations for working with Fenris.

        “Yer an elf, and a slave, and you belonged to a man who would sooner cut off my head than glance in my direction,” Anso said, stroking his beard.

        “I am an elf, but I am no slave,” Fenris said, slightly curling his fingers against the table.

After hours of talking, he had lost his fierceness when talking with Anso. The man was just thinking about his own safety, and Fenris couldn't fault him for that. And at this point, it was a matter of exchanging coin. Fenris felt if Anso wanted to go back on his word, he would have done so by now, but the fact that he was still sitting at the table meant something. At least, that's what Chaver had taught him.

Anso let out a labored sigh before muttering something like “Pain in my ass” under his breath. Fenris lifted his brows and smirked slightly. Well, surely that meant something good.

        “Alright, alright. I'll spread the word,” the dwarf said, waving his hand as though dismissing the whole matter. “I'm not sure if it's becoz I like ya or because I'm doin' it for the coin.”

        “Either would suffice.” Fenris pulled up the pouch from his side and dropped it onto the table in front of Anso. He moved his hand over to grab his tankard of ale before knocking it back. After setting the tankard down, Fenris said, “You've my thanks. Just do as we've agreed, and I'll need nothing else of you.”

Anso groaned and grabbed his own tankard, taking a calmer sip from it. Fenris stood up and moved towards the tavern's door. He didn't look over his shoulder to see the dwarf's expression. He could only hope Anso would keep to his word.

 

 

And keep to his word he did.

Fenris wasn't sure what he expected when someone named “Hawke” took his ruse of a job. Hawke was all smiles and actions and bad jokes; Fenris was a bit put off by the overwhelmingly friendly nature and did his best only to keep what happened between them professional. He offered Hawke coin to help him with slavers and would have offered more if that meant the human would be a worthy ally. Fenris severely underestimated this one. Hawke was more than happy to help, even going so far as to condemn slavers with both nonchalance and pure venom. It was… interesting, but Fenris was glad for the companionship.

The coin was better used on a round at the Hanged Man, where Fenris met Hawke's companions– Varric, Aveline, and Isabela. “There are others,” Hawke assured, “but they're all busy right now. You'll have to meet them later!” Fenris wasn't sure if he wanted to, if he cared to, but he was glad that the deed was done to perfection. Danarius' mansion had been cleared. It was _his_ now as far as the elf was concerned. Just when the sun set, Fenris headed back to Danarius' mansion on his own, his steps staggering from the significant amount of alcohol he drank. He had a satisfied smile on his face; he entered through the back door, which had been left unlocked. Before, he didn't care if anyone broke in and took things, but now this was _his_ estate, and he'd be damned if there was any such disrespect.

Fenris wandered around in a drunken haze, laughing to himself when his shoulder clipped corners or when he flopped hopelessly against a wall, feeling truly at ease for the first time in his _life_. He reached up a hand and pushed against the wall, stumbling up the stairs and towards the fireplace. The hearth was dusty and blackened with soot. Fenris stood in front of it, swaying and debating if it would be worth trying to light. He turned his head and let out a little hum. He swung around, kicking up a foot, before trotting over towards the dining table. He flopped down into a seat and threw an arm up onto the table; his other went to the arm rest.

Fenris leaned back his head and laughed, drunkenly yes, but it was the first time he had heard his own laughter and didn't feel ashamed. A smile curved his lips. He turned his attention over towards the other chair just diagonal from him. He stretched out his left foot and kicked the chair over. It fell backwards into the hearth, just barely disturbing the thick soot. Fenris stood up from his chair and walked around. He smashed vases, ripped down paintings, and yanked down expensive tapestries he knew had been bought and made with blood money. He laughed louder, so hard it heart, and even if it sounded fake to his own ears, he laughed. Fenris jumped and kicked the back of a chair. He rode it all the way down and stumbled forward, fingertips brushing the ground as he managed to keep himself from toppling over.

The elf jogged up the stairs to where his bed was. _His_ bed now! He swung around, tossing an arm into the air and letting it arc up and slam down against his leg. “Come take your property now, _Danarius!_ I dare you.” He shouted to the ceiling, feeling a great boost of pride hearing how strong his voice sounded when it was echoed back to him.

Fenris sat down hard onto the bed and then fell on his back. He didn't even have a chance to collect himself before he fell asleep.

 

 

A week passed, perhaps a little more, before Hawke came up to his door. In that time, O Maker… In that time, Fenris had run into his fair bit of trouble. Not that he considered it much trouble. Petty little mercenaries had come after him, one he recognised as someone who had ties with Danarius without working directly with him. A small number of the corpses laid near his entrance; others were scattered near and outside the back door to send a message.

Fenris barely opened the door and saw Hawke smiling down at him. “I wanted to ask for your assistance with a mission,” Hawke said. Fenris raised his brows, prompting the rogue to keep going. He watched the way the rogue spoke, slow hand motions with significant little pops of action, raised eyebrows, and tilted smiles.

But seeing the rogue in action was a completely different affair. Hawke was far more expressive with wide grins and broad gestures. Every action was a snappy and precise accompanied by a charming little laugh or cocky little taunt. Fenris was impressed from a fighting point of view. He believed, honestly believed, that he had someone worthy to fight by his side. And it was a belief that morphed into something better over time.

He learned more of what he disliked (or downright hated) about Hawke, usually when it came to the rogue's choice in… “friends”. Hawke's positive points, however, did bring attention to Fenris' own prejudices, uncomfortable little moments that put Fenris in a rough place. One day, when they returned back to Kirkwall, Fenris realised that he was in his own head. He was thinking too much, comparing himself to his fellows and replaying something Hawke said over and over in his head. Fenris was arguing with the mage – Anders – and Hawke made a quick quip about the two of them. It stopped the fighting, but the words haunted Fenris.

Maybe it was all ridiculous to think about. Maybe he was being far too sensitive for his own good, but… He reached a hand up into his hair, tugging at the silver locks and mentally chastising himself. Of all the things to get him down, this stupid off-handed comment was—!

He felt a hand over his and looked up in shock to see Hawke staring at him with worried eyes. Even though a small part of him twisted with renewed pain and disgust to see that concern so fresh and unadulterated, he couldn't dare accuse Hawke of pitying him. The rogue had his respect, and by now, he felt that Hawke's had been earned as well. The rogue tugged him off to the side; they talked in a narrow alleyway.

        “It was only a headache,” Fenris lied, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

        “I can imagine if you're pulling at your hair like that. And I've been yanked around by you once or twice. You're pretty strong.”

Fenris looked up to Hawke, looking exasperated by the joke, but the feeling didn't hold. He sighed and just waved his hand.

        “It was… nothing. I was just thinking too much.”

        Hawke hummed but, to Fenris' surprise, didn't push the issue. “You know where to find me, okay?”

Fenris stared in shock, but he muttered his agreement– and his thanks. Hawke had always respected his space even in the small time they knew each other, and of course, Fenris tried to do the same. There were also times when he tried to strike up conversations and do little checks on Hawke, small ways to show that he cared. That he was invested in all of this beyond business. They were friends now, well and honest friends.

It took a lot for Fenris to trust anyone, but with Hawke, he did so with growing ease.

 

 

And for a moment, he didn't think that the trust would be enough. 

When he heard the name “Varania”, Fenris felt as if something was wrong. She called herself his sister, and even the mere mention was enough to cause something in his head to break. He remembered _something_ in fragments. But he wasn't sure if it was suggestion or if it was real. He wasn't sure if the memories were created to fill in the foggy bits or not. He _hated_ the uncertainty, and he wanted to go with Hawke to meet this so-called “sister”. He would look that woman in the face.

And hope and pray that it was wasn't real.

When they met Varania, Fenris wasn't sure if it was worth it. She was flesh and blood, and she spoke of a past he didn't– couldn't– remember. She called him “Leto” and tried to reason with him. She tried to appeal to some sense that he didn't have. He didn't belong to Danarius; he didn't belong to the past she so claimed they shared. Upon making his declarations, the atmosphere changed. He felt the familiar, poisonous energy in the air before he even _saw_ the Magister. Fenris' lyrium lit up in his silent fury. He turned to Varania, wanting so desperately to kill her, but Hawke turned him towards a new target.

He saw the smug face of Danarius, and the magister called out to him.

        “You look so beautiful, my wolf, all lit up like that. Never forget that I've made you so beautiful,” Danarius said, taking in Fenris with a hungry and lecherous gaze.

Fenris' lips twisted in his disgust, and Hawke stood at his side, weapons ready to attack the magister. Aveline readied her mighty broadsword, and Fenris heard the intimidating click of Varric's readied crossbow. There was a moment of sudden realisation that sent a chill through Fenris' body. He wasn't alone in this. He hadn't been for some time. On the outside, it might have seemed like a strange time to notice this, but to him, it was perfect.

It gave him the clarity he needed to lift his sword and strike true.

When the battle was over, there was no immediate satisfaction. Fenris was covered in blood, the blood of his former master and the men with him. The elf shuddered bodily as he stared at the corpse; Varric had left the group to find the owner and use some of that charm of his to keep them out of trouble. Fenris turned towards Varania who was fool enough not to run. In fact, she was crying, broken, robbed of her future. She looked how Fenris felt years and years ago, but Fenris felt a need to end her suffering. His rage built slowly. His lyrium lit up from his feet to his head like a migration of fireflies. He reached a hand back, ready to drive it into and through her, but Hawke _grabbed_ him.

Hawke pulled Fenris back and covered his eyes with one hand. Fenris felt he should have been enraged; he felt like he should have pulled away, but he was cold all throughout. He let his hand go limp, even though Hawke held his wrist. Hawke spoke in a low commanding voice; it was enough to give Fenris a chill.

        “Go,” the rogue said. “Go and thank Andraste for your life.”

Fenris was momentarily blinded, but he didn't hear Varania moving; he heard her whimper and cower. The noises disturbed his hearing. The elf gave a low, brief growl and uttered,

        “ _Leave,_ ” in a haunting voice.

He heard her leave then. Varania's bare feet slapped against the stone as she exited with haste. Fenris reached up to place a hand over Hawke's. He relaxed his weight against the rogue. He felt as if he would collapse. Hawke whispered, “Let's go” and took Fenris back to his manor.

Not Danarius'. _Fenris'_ manor. His and his alone.

 

 

Even though his living embodiment of nightmares was gone, there was still much recovery ahead. Recovery that Fenris never expected, never thought that he would have. It was slow, and Hawke was of infinite help. One afternoon when Fenris had a book in front of him and when he was struggling with the words underneath his gauntlets, he looked up to Hawke who had dozed off in the chair beside him.

        “Why are you doing this?” he asked softly. “Why… in everything do you continue to do this?”

He wasn't sure if he meant something in specific or if he could only speak in vague poetics about _everything_. Hawke's lips quirked up, and the rogue gave a small yawn.

        “Because we're friends, Fenris. Even better, we're… family…”

Hawke shifted slightly in the chair before falling back asleep again. Fenris wasn't sure what he felt. A smile began to form before he had a chance to completely feel it. He tipped his head down towards the book and started at the very top of the page. He read the words softly, slowly, and kept track with a finger. He had never in his life expected to feel at peace, but he swore by all gods that he would protect it.


End file.
